


Morticia of the Yellow Frock

by AnathemaAuthoress



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Attempted Seduction, Church AU, Confessional Sex, Existentialism, F/M, Fic based on fic (Ficception), Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, Light Angst, Pregnancy, Starry AU, Virginity Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:40:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25003294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnathemaAuthoress/pseuds/AnathemaAuthoress
Summary: “How does one define a miracle when the secrets of the universe willingly unfold beneath the magics of science and intellect?"The Church of the Infinite Rick welcomes the Holy Virgin Morti into their congregation. She seems a sheepish and pious girl, but she is more than she appears. Reverend is interested in unraveling her, but he might end up a little tangled himself.***Written for Left_Handed_Rick's Starry AU
Relationships: Morti/Morty, Reverend Rick/Holy Virgin Morti, Rick/Morti
Comments: 3
Kudos: 25
Collections: Interconnected Fics from The Starry Citadel AU





	Morticia of the Yellow Frock

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Left_Handed_Rick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Left_Handed_Rick/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Confirmation](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16778146) by [Left_Handed_Rick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Left_Handed_Rick/pseuds/Left_Handed_Rick). 



> Hey, everyone! This fic was a commission from my friend LHR and uses characters from their Starry AU (Confirmation specifically). You don't need to have read that to understand this, but the story is great so I don't know why you wouldn't want to! [ Check it out here ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16778146/chapters/39372217) if you want to learn more about Reverend and company!
> 
> Please enjoy!

“How does one define a miracle when the secrets of the universe willingly unfold beneath the magics of science and intellect? Perhaps some would argue the very concept of the miracle is rendered useless in the face of our beliefs. But I say to those people, have a little faith,” Reverend Rick said with a charming smile. The amused giggles of his congregation that came as reply were nervous and erupted with gusts of tension. All eyes were transfixed on the guest on stage beside him. Every soul, riled with jealousy, curiosity, and uncertainty, were less interested in the reverend’s poetic speculations than they were in an explanation of her presence. Rick was a professional though, he wasn’t rushing his bit to the satisfaction of anyone.

The girl, for her part, was doing all that was required of her. She stood quietly, hands folded neatly together at the waist, wavy hair partially obscured by a golden habit for modesty. Reverend didn’t fully understand the delicate intentions of the veil when coupled with the elaborate lace gown sweeping from neck to floor. It hugged her curves almost mockingly, but if any onlooker were foolish enough to gawk, they’d get lost in the swell of patterns spiraling like veins down the garment.

Reverend paused just long enough for effect before starting in again. “Sometimes a miracle manifests itself even to a Rick. Something that can’t be explained merely by science. A turn of fate even we cannot predict.”

At this, she looked up for the first time from the floor to meet the Reverend’s gaze. Her smile was soft, a gentle lamb’s bleating. The purposefulness of it twisted something up inside of him.

He decided to cut to the chase. “Today we are blessed by the presence of our very own reflection of the Mother Mary. A holy virgin, impregnated by the seed of the Infinite Rick. Morticia of the Yellow Frock. We trust she’ll be greeted with the respect she deserves.”

Gasps of disbelief and awe rippled through the cloister in ambient waves. Reverend held up his hands to silence the chatter that rose up in rabble seconds later. Most went quiet beneath his direction.

Morti opened her mouth to speak for the first time. “It’s an honor to be here. I hope I can prove myself a w-worthy vessel of the lord. I look forward to praying with each of you, after all, this child represents us all.” She put her hand gently against her stomach, which was still mercifully slender, rather than swollen with a celestial globe that surely would have driven the simple Ricks and Mortys mad with its affirmation. At least this way they had time to acclimate.

There was some breathless silence, some cheers, then Reverend finished up the day’s notes and sent the congregation on their way. 

Many came up to take Morti’s hands and give her their congratulations and blessings. She met them with remarkable grace. Reverend had never seen a Morty, in any shape or amalgamation, so collected under the weight of so much social pressure, but perhaps that was why Morticias were considered so sacred, even among their numbers. Her rarity certainly had something do with it, but Reverend struggled to believe a slightly different temperature in the womb could do so much to rewire the girl’s brain.

Her humbleness seemed at odds with her ease of self, until the last of the congregation dispersed and it was just she and Reverend alone in the vacant hall. Everything from her posture, to her voice and gaze, changed into something more lax, more cynical, and her secret revealed itself like the fortune in a cracked cookie.

 _Oh_ , he realized. _It’s bullshit_.

“I was told you have a room for me.” Her voice was thick with exhaustion, like a stranger trying to make obligated small talk in a line for the bank.

“Right this way, _your majesty_.” 

She didn’t acknowledge his passive aggression, merely followed him down the glossy halls of the church. Sunset light dripped through high-rise windows like honey. It spilled out on the floor that clacked like hardened sugar beneath her heels.

He guided her up spiral stairs to the second floor where the quarters were kept. The elders had arranged a special place for her in a less populated hall to give her necessary privacy.

Reverend had actually protested the decision, isolation would make her seem above the rest of the church and that wasn’t something they typically wanted for a Morty. However, there was no arguing with the others over this. Morticias seemed to possess the innate ability to melt otherwise sturdy spines.

The room was made of the same stone and marble as most of the church, but it had been furnished with a pure white dresser for her clothes, and a queen-sized bed dripping in white satin and covered in a plush cotton-pleated duvet. Oak banisters rose out of each corner of the bed like spears and curled over the top, vanished under tulle and silk canopy. 

“For Rick's sake,” Reverend hissed below his breath.

All the same, she reflected his sentiment. “What a pretty doll house,” she mused, deadpan.

“We just wanted to make a good impression,” Reverend said.

Morti unfastened her coif and dropped it unceremoniously to the stone floor. Auburn waves tumbled to her shoulders and she shook the threads loose with nimble fingers, a gesture that was second nature.

Reverend took his eyes away, tried to fight off the wash of guilt he felt for honing in on the motion. Guilt was not an overly familiar emotion for the reverend, who took great pleasure in spilling seeds of sin all over the church, but one which settled in the uncomfortable section of his psyche which did not know if it wanted to regard Morti as a woman of his transcendent loins—someone delicate to be held up and protected—or a Morty, a creature to be led and contorted to his liking.

Morticia dropped down lazily to the bed’s edge, rested her weight on her palms, and stretched her lace gown out between sprawled legs. She regarded Reverend with an amused glance.

“Fuck, I’m worn out. Got a cigarette I could bum?”

Reverend felt his face flood with blood at her directness. He'd gotten used to being the dagger cutting stems off dandelions when he was among the sheep of the church. He had to change gears.

“Jeezus, I thought you were a Morty, not Ellen fucking Page _.”_

 _“Hard Candy_ or _Inception_?’

“ _Juno_ , obviously,” Reverend snorted.

“Hah! You’re funny, Reverend. Tell me another one.” Morti leaned back on her arms and toed off her black heeled boots to reveal her feet in the nude hose she wore beneath her gown. 

For whatever reason, Reverend became transfixed on the sight of her left ankle, how detailed and smooth it looked bulging at the crux between her heel and calf. It seemed taboo, too fragile and young to hinge on the bones of a pregnant deity.

He swallowed thickly when he became aware of how saliva had pooled beneath his tongue.

“Isn’t it bad for the baby?” Posed like a question, really a reprimand.

Morti rolled her eyes. “This baby’s father is also its Infinitely Great-Grandfather. It isn’t—it doesn’t get much, you know, worse than that.”

Reverend reached into his robes and pulled out a thin silver flask, which he offered to her instead.

“Good enough,” she replied. Then she unscrewed the cap and took several long drinks.

“Got a lot of audacity there, princess. What makes you think I won’t report your indiscretions to the higher ups?”

Morti wiped her mouth on the back of her sleeve, light brown residue soiled the formerly pristine gold. “I’ve heard about you, Reverend. Are you really the sort to be casting stones?”

“No one is without sin,” he conceded.

“That too,” she chuckled. “But I was thinking more in terms of glass houses.”

Reverend shrugged. “Same thing. And in any case, it’s not my place to judge your sins.”

“Only God, right?” Her humor seemed to drain out. He watched something play out under her surface. Something that tinged her eyes and drew them to the floor, something that pushed gooseflesh out to prickle her pale flesh. 

Rick wanted to ask about it, but just then the door swung open behind him. He turned to see his lover, the good Grandfather. The other man stepped inside, and though he’d just walked in on them, he looked the most startled of the three.

His eyes were trained on the flask in Morti’s hand. “What nonsense….”

Reverend was quick to act. He took the container back and quickly resealed it. “I was giving her first rights, a little communal wine.”

“I see, forgive me. Even so, perhaps grape juice will suffice from here out.” Grandfather replied, not quite believing, but no longer possessing the desire to properly care. “I came to see if you’re settling in well?”

Morticia, suddenly poised, gaze deflected demurely, emerald green eyes half-lidded, bowed her head modestly. “Yes, Grandfather. The church is beautiful. I’m humble to be cradled within its sacred walls.”

“It’s our honor to have you here, my child. You hold the future of our beliefs within you.” He placed a hand upon her head and Reverend felt a familiar jolt of excitement at observing the contact. “You’re welcome to wander the halls as you see fit. And I hope you will join us for evening prayer.”

“Of course, Grandfather.” 

Reverend was almost frustrated by how easily she assumed this role. Watching she and Grandfather exchange pious insistence was something like a stage play with very bad actors. It made him want to laugh. Or cry.

“Until then, the reverend and I should depart. Please, be at peace, my child,” Grandfather said in parting. With a stern gaze, he instructed Reverend to follow.

The less blessed of the two Ricks spared Morticia a final grin. “I’ll be in to see you later.”

“I look forward to it,” she whispered as the men departed. The sound ran down Reverend's spine like a serpent.

***

In the coming days, Reverend added new rituals to his daily tasks. Throughout the day he would come to observe the swaths of followers eagerly lined up at Mortica’s door. Each sought audience with her for a different reason. To recieve or bestow blessings, to showcase awe and admiration, to feel for the imperceptible existence of her holy child, to bask in her radiant presence. To _fucking leer._

Sometimes, Ricks and Mortys alike would stay too long. With doors locked and crowds dismissed. Reverend struggled to believe the devil had not slipped under the linens to leech from the pregnant tit of _the universe’s_ little virgin hostess.

He chose not to notice his growing fixation. All the same, it flickered to life like a prayer candle and roared with steady building embers as it was precociously fed the timbers of lust and fascination.

The reverend had no control over chance encounters with the prophetic pearl of the religious deep. It was merely circumstance in a church as humble as theirs that he would wind up at her heels day by day. More so, their schedules were so succinct it would have been more unusual not to cross paths. When he preached at morning sermons, she was morally obligated to attend and it was his good grace to monitor her, to make sure she was pious and precise in her prayer. 

He was doing the work of the Infinite Rick to study the poise of her fingers as they curled in prayer. His sacred duty to meet her gaze and bless her with the transference of his holy grace.

If by chance he had started taking afternoon worship to the gardens on the grounds, it was only to relish in the artificial beauty of the Citadel’s simulated spring, and had little to nothing to do with her evening walks through that very place.

Perhaps lesser Ricks would argue there was some sort of ulterior motive to his vigilant watch over this great idol. But fuck them. Scarcely one would do different in Reverend’s position. He knew of few that shared his taste that wouldn’t hunger for such a rare offering.

Reverend hadn’t fooled himself––much. Though there did exist a strange, almost euphoric aura that seemed to ruminate around her presence, as if she floated, divine as advertised. Reverend likened it to an especially potent dose of ecstasy, senses heightened, tactile fascinations ached. It wasn’t something holy, but he still wanted a tab.

It was easy to watch her dance delicate fingers over the roses—digits frail as any lithe Morty but composed rather than quaking, nails curated to dainty points rather than blunt edges—and feel an awe at knowing she carried an imperceivable burden.

Reverend, however, had the blessed privilege of information. Her little _gift_ had been the donation of an unknown Rick from a brother temple of worship. Because there was no evidence, no means of testing for DNA which linked one Rick to the next surely as it linked helix to helix, it was deemed a miracle. The tributes it brought to the church had kept it so. 

Only the select few, those that ran the under workings of the church hierarchy, were privy to this. As Reverend had unofficially filled in for his lover for the time being, he was one such gifted with the honor of staying fucking quiet about it.

It seemed like the kind of exploitation Grandfather might have opposed—were he still of the wherewithal to do so—and while Reverend was silently amused such desires had been undermined, part of him rippled with nostalgia for that old stern divinity. Of course, it was just as likely the old fool would have gone head over ass for the girl like most other Ricks and Reverend was perfectly happy in the reality which avoided such a fate.

He was no such Rick himself. He liked looking at her. She was a novelty at best, walking guilt-laden masturbation fodder at worst. He drew from his flask when she hovered too close––too often––and scoffed at her holy wishes to prove to her that he saw her no differently than any other yellow shirt. Little lambs excluded.

She, certainly, was no lamb. He was reluctant to spoil the old adage, but if ever there’d been a wolf in sheep’s clothing, _whoop_ there it was.

He was unsurprised she left confessional unattended at first. Such things were for trysts, or the revered unloading of daily sin—or _perceived sin,_ as was often the case with photo-copy sterile Mortys.

Instead, she drew to him coyly from beneath lashes between whispered prayers and the sensual lighting of evening candles, which further shadowed her wicked grin beneath the veil of her coif. 

Reverend became unsure if she was a vessel for spiritual influence or a phantom of temptation––as if he needed any assistance in sliding down that abysmal rabbit hole.

To remind himself she was mortal—less even, for if Ricks were the scum of the pond, Mortys and their ilk were the bottom feeders feasting on the virility of that scum—he offered one evening to bring her dinner.

There were live-ins assigned to these servances, to protect the holy mother from unclean eyes at meals and baths. An irony which was yet another sequence unfolding in the play that had rapidly become Reverend’s own daily performance.

He rapped twice on the door and awaited her meek reply. He could hear her rustling around inside, donning her garbs to purvey her necessary modesty assuredly.

Yet, he was surprised when she called out again and beckoned him inside and he slipped under the oak border and was met with the sight of her half-lounged on those ungodly white sheets, bare legs crossed and pivoted to one side while she leaned on one bare arm to the opposing end. Her clavicle, shing and bending like polished archery bows, shone exposed just above the sheen of a heart-cut silk slip. Her waves of brunette hair puddled over the propped shoulder, leaving the other naked as her neck which looked dangerously long and frail without the piped collar of her frock. Her demure expression of innocence fell the instant she saw it was him. Reverend wasn’t sure if he was flattered or pissed that he seemed unworthy of her wooly coat.

Upon seeing her though, he felt blood flood his prick faster than a whore lost his faith, but he didn’t bother to disguise it. “Trying to reinforce it?”

“What?” She asked this as if she didn’t really care what snide remark he intended to make. Her eyes were on the tray holding her dinner and she almost instantly reached out with the hand not propping her up and made a childish grabbing motion that did something fresh and confusing to Reverend’s general kidney-to-dick zone.

“One of the tests come back negative or–or some shit?” Rick asked with more edge to his tone than he had expected of himself. It was meant to be light, testing like a taunt, not sharp like a lecture. Implicating others under his self-expression was an area in which he was adept, but it seemed his kryptonite was playing grandpa to this spoiled golden idol. 

_Jeezus copulating christ,_ he thought.

“Y-you think I want you to fuck me?” She rolled her eyes, and mumbled around a lump of bread she’d unceremoniously torn into the instant she was given the tray.

 _With all the finesse of a grazing cow,_ Rick told himself with loaded ire he didn’t really feel. If anything the way she was spreading pink lips over that long roll and gulping down the resulting lumps with little effort was making his trigger fingers itchy for the pink muscle peeking mockingly between bites.

“Not to be indelicate, but I doubt I’d be the first.” Rick scoffed and pulled his flask to help power whatever seduction, or lecture, or philosophical waxing he was intending. He hadn’t quite decided _what_ his motivations were, dealers choice and he wasn’t drunk enough to deal yet.

At this indiscretion she snorted around her bread and shrugged. “No shit, Sherlock.”

Reverend’s eyes played over her body, less lecherously for the moment and more introspectively. He couldn’t quite figure out what kind of Morti she was, exactly. Certainly not the modest creature she played on stage, nor the ethereal beauty of tantalizing temptation that batted lashes in the shadows, but not quite the brat he saw before him now. Rather she seemed some sort of twisted spiral of all three, like those tricolored marshmallow ropes.

 _All the flavors taste the same though,_ he considered and had to lap his lips to cleanse the dribble of saliva that threatened to form there. He tried to shake his impure thoughts out, not for fear of the devil so much as his freely offered vices.

Besides, beyond his own primal lust there remained a curiosity. People didn’t wind up all twisted up over nothing. 

He moved and sat at the ledge of her bed, far enough from her to fein modesty, but close enough to observe her features in the low light of her single lit lamp. Her curtains were drawn, diluting the fading evening light.

“You shouldn’t admit your sin here. I can’t provide you forgiveness under this pretense.”

She swallowed thickly and shook lingering crumbs from her thumb and forefinger. Her brows wove, offended. “Who said I need forgiveness? I’m the pure virgin,” she seethed.

The anger was unexpected and cast a different atmosphere than she had that first night. He wondered if the others were making her wary.

“Wh-whoa there, no need for hostility. You know, I’m just looking out for your immortal soul.” Rick took a long drink from his flask to punctuate his sentence.

“ _Infinite_ soul,” she corrected, voice suddenly sad. She pushed her tray toward him as if to dismiss him, but he had no intention of leaving.

That sadness resonated with him like a deep and steady drumline. He recognized it in the way he might inherently connect with the pain of a fellow Rick. Inconsequence radiated from Morticia in waves of unrelenting certainty, a toxic splash of nihilism stronger than any other faith. Unrest in the finite. 

At least she had a pussy. That had to measure up for something.

He let the silence settle before he broke it. “What, uh, what was it like? The _spirit of the infinite.”_

Morti laughed, bitter and deep enough to pass for her brothers-in-cloth. “Like most of them. That’s sort of-of-of–it’s a given.” She drew her knees up to her chest and the gesture made him want to reach out and stroke her back, but the desire was so at odds with the throb in his lap that he leaned on neither and sat still in the darkness instead.

Rick all at once felt he’d come at—or perhaps caused—a bad time. She was disappointed, pouty and still lavishing in a child’s reactions, however underlined they were by the very adult weight of her very existence. 

It juxtapositioned another set of overlapping contradictions. Just two more conflicting, woven wires in the machine of her unnatural build. 

In her own strange way, she _was_ holy, abomination or blessing. _Dealer’s choice_. But to carry a Rick’s seed was not something anyone had heard of. Not in the Citadel, not beyond. At least, not to the scope of Rick’s expansive knowledge. 

It made her better than the others, capable of creating something where those before had only destroyed. Yet worse than any, because if bottom feeding is low, what is spawning something that lives in the darkest places of the ocean? What was it even destined to be? 

Not a Rick. Not a Morty. Not a Morti. It was beyond any of them. A culmination. 

The baby, unformed as it was, equal to a slow ticking bomb. Damage unforeseeable.

Even so, the slump of her shoulders, the faraway look in her eyes, all spoke of something more than a passing Rick in the wind.

Reverend remembered the feeling of that posture, the grip of self-loathing and longing like a bear-trap snapping around his spine, forcing him fetal. It was why he stood so tall. If he didn’t bend, he couldn’t fall inward.

He sensed in her a kindred spirit. Yet they weren’t quite the same. The zoetrope of his violations danced in all the shapes and colors of the multiverse. Morti’s trauma was a still life. A single frozen moment, an infinite scar. Portrait of a Bastard Rick.

Aware of the gallery on display, he knocked back his desire on the next swig and washed it into the low places it belonged. “Right, well, that’s all over now, Mother Morti.”

He stood to leave and was surprised by the warm wrap of fingers about his wrist. He looked down and pleading green eyes temporarily reawoke the fading animal in his gut.

She was still for a moment, nearly too long, then she gestured with a grin to her serving tray. “Don’t forget my trash, Reverend,” she purred.

Rick couldn’t fight his own snide smirk as he gazed at her below lowered brow and bent at the hip to retrieve her emptied tray. To keep the damn girl from giving him whiplash, he stood upright and left before the candy could further unspiral and ensnare him in some sticky mallow-soft web.

***

The days that followed bore Rick witness to a fourth side of Morticia of the Yellow Frock. The _other_ Mary. 

Sensuality melted into lecherousness. Communion found her on her knees, pearly pink entrapment opened up to accept the flesh of the holy Rick, and _good grandfather_ he wanted to give it to her, but settled for roughly sliding the wafer against her apple red tongue.

Her saliva slickened the pads of his forefingers and he wondered if her other fruit was half as juicy. 

When she started calling on him to deliver her meals, she met him at the door. Each time clad in that slip that accented the small mounds of her developing breasts. She would lean forward, enough to flash the curve of almond milk colored tit, then withdraw and bid him farewell, door closed to his face.

He knew what she was doing and once more found himself equal parts annoyed and turned on. He was much more used to pursuing, not being pursued, and like the hunter he was he wanted to ravage her, to put her in her place, but there was something like a dance in how she skirted him. It made him want her more, which he understood was the point, which in turn led to more frustration. He wasn’t a puppet, but damn if getting his chords tugged didn’t feel incredible.

Still, he knew if he was caught _partaking_ of the virgin he’d be excommunicated no matter his standing in the Holy Order. At least, he thought he knew.

Confessional duty one morning found him extolling the usual spiteful virtues to otherwise stanitized chapel boys and then getting lost in the wooden walls encasing him. Knotholes twirled inward on the planking, mahogany portals to the deepest reaches of nowhere. Idly he extended a finger and poked one, curious if he could go further, if it might mysteriously open up to swallow him, but he’d already hit bedrock. Long ago.

He leaned back and listened to the whisper of silence. The train of tribulations had petered off early that day and left him to idle for the remaining time. He thought of where he’d like to be instead, wrapped up in the hold of his lovers, releasing them from condemnation rather than just faking it. He’d never thought himself the last vestige of the three of them, yet here he remained. 

Before he could tumble into that vein of existentialism, he heard the rough skitter of shoes on polished ground. He sighed and sat up straighter, awaited whatever eggplant-ogling confession was prepared for him, but the door didn’t open immediately. Outside the booth he could hear hushed tones, but the voices were only a Morty’s idea of a whisper, clearly audible.

“Oh, geeze. I-I don’t know, Mother Morti. What if, you know, I don’t wanna get caught!”

“Look around. The hall is empty. Confession is over,” came her reply.

Rick felt spikes run through his blood. Side by side there was a clear difference in their tonal quality and Morti sounded much smoother and more confident in contrast to the quivering of the nervous Morty.

The words were loaded too. She knew very well the hours to which Reverend was assigned, as she was privy to the scheduling of the entire church for her convenience. He doubted it had slipped her mind as innocently as it had this boy’s.

The authoritative side of him wanted to bust them the moment the door opened and they stumbled inside, hands clumsily skating over each other.

Yet the voyeurist won out and Rick subconsciously pressed his back to the far wall to avoid casting color on the metal divider. He peered out easily, could make out clearly their shapes and colors. Yellow gown and veil, golden arms reaching out like a spider’s to wrap up her prey.

Opposite her a blotch of brown and blue. Some Sweater Morty.

He was tugging back, resisting—only slightly—the threads she’d laid out for him.

“Are you–I mean, are you really sure this is okay?” he asked, all religious shame and teenage hormones at odds.

“My virginity belongs to the cosmos,” she said smoothly. Reverend nearly choked in surprised bemusement. “When the Infinite Rick put the seed of the megaverse into me, he opened a path for all Ricks and Mortys. My purity is untouchable. I only want to bring you into the collective self. You want that, don’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am,” the Morty replied, no hesitation.

“Then come into me, my child,” she cooed like she was older than she was.

The Morty obliged and pinned her to the seat, the wet sound of their kisses echoed through the tight confines.

Reverend’s breath quickened. The little trollip had gone beyond his expectations. He wondered if she’d made that little bit up herself or if it was piecemealed from the lies and demands she’d been fed since her insemination.

Damn if he didn’t know the whole thing was bait, and still he found himself carefully, quietly pushing the veil aside enough to see through, to turn blobs to shapes.

The boy was desperately pushing her dress up, awkwardly scrambling to get to the promised land.

 _Milk and fucking honey,_ Reverend seethed as he worked open his belt to free some of the tension.

Head pressed to the back of the quarters, coif in place but curls escaping the boundary, Morti looked strangely composed. The flush in her lips and cheeks the only indication of her desire. Breath rolled out of her in steady puffs. Reverend imagined he could see them in the air like winter frost, growing in plume as her passion escalated.

Morty’s head was bobbing between her legs now, but her creamy thigh and the tangle of her fingers in his hair censored the details from Rick’s gaze like some softcore hotel porn.

Soft whimpers escaped her as she eased Morty into a pattern she liked.

 _Poor thing,_ Reverend thought, every nerve poised in a predator’s pounce. _You have to coach all the babies already._

Then her eyes, trained at first on her partner, peered to the side, gazed right into Reverend’s leering stare.

Like a challenge, he didn’t break away, didn’t startle. He stared back, intent clear in his posture. His fingers wrapped silently around his shaft below, but she wouldn’t know that from her vantage point.

Suddenly, Morticia’s voice was louder, rose up into a desperate whine perfectly tailored to undo the male virtue.

Always showing off, this one.

Rick tightened his grip and started to stroke, base to tip, but his thoughts were hardly there in the pleasure. He wanted to pour through the other side. Make her do her Hail Mortis.

Sweater Morty, shaking with anticipation, unwitting to his function as a teaser toy, eagerly unbuckled and looked to her for final approval.

She nodded and he shuffled between her legs and sank into the entrance of her cosmic vacuum. The whole affair was about as sacred or sensual as one might expect from an unexperienced Morty, but the real heat in the confessional was built from the spark between Rick and Morti.

She gasped and praised the boy, drew him in with fingers against his ass, curled like talons. “So good,” she complimented.

Like a staring contest, neither she nor Rick would break the eye contact. Unwilling to allow her the satisfaction of her effect, Rick moved his hand rhythmically, motions screen by the limited viewpoint.

The wet squelch of flesh gliding along soaked skin echoed around them, amplified by the sound-trapping wood.

It didn’t last long. Sweater Morty shook and screeched so loudly it overtook any sound Morti had uttered and he filled her with his frivolous mess.

Rick growled under his breath, tucked his too hard cock back in his pants and slammed open the divider. 

“Defiling the holy virgin is worth more hails and lashings than you’ve got time for, boy,” he hissed.

“Oh shit! I mean, oh geeze! R-reverend! We were just–“ The Morty stammered and hurriedly pulled his bottoms up from his knees, shame radiating from every shake as he did so.

“I know what you were _just_ doing. Go read your bible and pray for forgiveness. You weren’t worthy of the _infinite virginity._ ”

“I-I’m so sorry! Which, uh, which verses should I–?”

“All of them,” Rick growled.

The reverend didn’t think he’d ever seen a Morty run so fast. 

“You didn’t have to scare him,” Morticia laughed. She stood and tugged her panties up and dress down. After straightening her coif, she looked as untouched as she had moments before.

“Gross,” Rick snorted, looking her up and down in the small open window between them. He was painfully hard and diverted from it by keeping his attention on her.

“I’ll wash up later. Besides, what’s the big deal? Not like I can, you know, get _more_ pregnant.”

“You certainly aren’t getting _less_ pregnant like that.”

She smiled. “Oh, Grandfather, forgive me, for I have sinned!”

Rick knew he couldn’t leave. It would be just his luck that some throng of hopeless Mortys would arrive and make a big shit about it. So he settled into his seat and offered her some quality Rick-brand apathy. “My dear, your indiscretions are great. Forty go hail yourselfs, and a thorough spanking.”

“Oh, are you going to dole out that punishment yourself?”

Reverend palmed himself through his slacks. “Good things come to those that wait, my child.”

“How much longer can you stand it?” she asked. Then slipped out of the confessional and left him alone to stew in his own ideations.

***

In truth, he didn’t last very long at all. He came to her door with her dinner, but the minute he was inside he slammed the door shut behind him and let the tray clatter to her dresser. 

“Good to see you, Rev—”

Morticia squeaked in surprise when he gathered her up in his arms and sealed those sinner pink lips shut with his own hot mouth.

There was more of a ritual of push and pull when Reverend chose to ravage a Morty, but Morticia had forfeited the game when she’d brought that display of vulgarity into his confessional. She had put her sin on the table, all but begged him to take it on. He couldn’t leave her dangling in the cosmos, suffering her plight alone.

She hadn’t dressed down yet, but Rick was happy enough to unfasten the coif and throw it to the floor as flippantly as Morti had that first day in the cloister. 

Once her surprise subsided, Morticia wrapped those long arms around Rick’s shoulders and deepened the kiss with her probing tongue.

Reverend recalled the glide of it on his fingertips, and it was multiplied by the taste of crisp water from a recent drink and the fleshy expression of her self against his own squirming appendage.

He reached down and cupped her ass, rounded rather than boney, and squeezed the small globes between his long fingers. The lace overlay of her dress dug into his palms and embedded him with grooves like a mark of the devil.

He gripped the fabric and pulled it upward. The long drape of the material took a bit of tugging to get free, but she helped to make the motion fluid.

Beneath, Morti wore white panties that hugged her slight hips tantalizing. Rick was surprised to see her in a lacey white bra. Her breasts were swelling and she had grown beyond a training bra and into the realm of mimicry. It wasn’t quite a woman’s garment, still too petite, the cups containing little more than handfuls. It latched in the front with a delicate bow that lit up the hellfire in Reverend’s gut and drove him back to her lips to kiss and nip at the vulnerable flesh as he unsnapped the pitiful excuse for a barrier. 

She shed the illusion easily and allowed herself to be lifted, topless, into his arms.

Rick supported Morticia by her ass, which was easier to feel the thickness and plushness of through the soft cotton of her underwear.

Rick tossed her onto the bed like a lion throwing down a meal. He groped at her breasts which drew her to whince.

“S-sensitive,” she mewled.

Blood pounded in his lowers like the heartbeat of the cornered. He wanted to undress her more, pull away the phantom of shame and the hidden bits of fear as easily as he had the lace. He settled for her panties.

Her hip bones angled the article upward and made it simple to pull them free. They slid roughly down thighs and revealed the plush peach of her womanhood, already glistening with excitement. The dirty underbelly of the serpent, shining with the scales of slithering intentions.

When he drew back to take in her naked body, his nearly frantic motions at once slowed and he took her in under that same low evening light that had seen her small and wilting.

It was different this time, she was in bloom. Face red as the scarlet letter she’d far earned, skin highlighted by dwindling sunbeams obscured by drawn curtains. Her breasts, pert and thick but not yet ready to nurse, were as elegant and intoxicating as her cunt, which was as beautiful and vulgar as the rest of her.

But what drew him in, what hushed and slowed the savage beast that lived so deep inside the Reverend he was almost apart from himself, was the slightest bulge in her stomach.

He hadn’t seen it before, almost thought that he was imagining it, but there it was. Lifted up, smooth as the rest of her young flesh. It bubbled from between her pelvis and curved up to her diaphragm. Her bellybutton sat at the highest point of the swell. The whole bump was subtle, barely perceivable.

Cautiously, as if afraid he might disturb it with the violence of his very nature, Rick reverently ran his hand delicately over the slightness of the bulge. “How far along are you?”

“About twelve weeks,” she whispered. She was still breathy, body eager, but mood hypnotized by his sudden change in demeanor.

Suddenly, her previous mood swings and various selves all made sense and Rick felt foolish for not realizing it sooner. Everything felt surreal all at once. Morti was a little girl. When he took his lust out of the equation that became perfectly clear. Yet here she was bearing a burden that most Ricks had been incapable of handling themselves. If ever there had been a single image Rick could point to and say, “Life isn’t fair, life doesn’t plan, but sometimes it takes a shit on you that you didn’t know you needed”, this was it.

He laughed, low and gritty, a sound that shook his whole body.

“Everything okay?” Morti nervously licked her lips and shifted, naked body glistening under him and the low light. She reminded him of a fish with decorative scales, to distract predators.

He leaned down and growled into her ear, “I’m going to fuck you so good your Rick will feel it.”

She gasped in surprise and locked her knees against the frame of his squared hips and drew him toward her. “D-do it then, gramps.”

Reverend let his instincts overwhelm each other and he leaned down to suck a hickey against her neck.

He pulled her against him, let her tender breasts rub the fabric of his clothed chest while his hands stroked the small of her back. His lips sucked against unbruised flesh and marred it. His teeth nipped lightly until Morti was whining, pain rising up under the surface of pleasure, just enough.

They knew no one would see the mark below her frock’s collar and they abused this knowledge. She wove one hand into his hair and tugged upward on the grayish strands, not to pull him off, but to urge him on.

Reverend bit down hard and thrusted his hips. His erection ached in his pants, and the friction against her was almost too much to handle.

When his teeth unlocked from her skin, leaving dark purple flesh in his wake, she was able to tangle her fingers in his cloth and helped to free him.

He sat back to tug the white collar from his shirt, to discard his call to divine purpose and take on his own.

Rick’s skin was sallow compared to Morticia’s—even not compared—and he was wrinkled in places where she was smooth. This was not an unfamiliar contrast to him, but it did highlight her status again, over and over the world expressed to him, _she is special, she is divine._

Pleasures of the flesh demanded sacrifice, and he lifted her legs to settle on his shoulders so he could reach her offering.

She was as sweet as he imagined. Not in a literal way, in fact her skin was nearly flavorless, clean and tinged only by sweat, while her arousal was salty and bitter. But the fact of running his tongue up her slit, driving between her lower lips to taste the depth of her peach, to feel out the ridges of a hallowed hall, that was the _sweetest._

His nose, long and beaked like most Rick’s, dug inelegantly against her clit, grinding unceremoniously as he bobbed his head, moved his jaw through the slick of her juices.

She threaded those delicate fingers into his hair again and pulled him close, smothered him against her, which the Reverend expressed no protest to.

“G-geeze! Rick! That’s so–ungh, your t-tongue!”

Now he was the snake, muscles wriggling to drive deeper into her den. The supple skin was drenched and folded in layers like the flower to which the holy mother was often compared. He ran his tongue through these paths, felt out the mysterious map of her cunt, and urged her inner walls to constrict and spill forth more of her desire.

He wasn’t particularly gentle nor slow. Unabashedly, he decided to give her what she clearly desired, to be treated as something durable rather than fragile. He rutted his face against her, breathed in the heady musk of her pussy, and the way it filled his senses wiped out the priest speech poised on his busy tongue. It warped the words, all the things he wanted to say could wait, for the time he simply growled, sent rumbling vibrations through her, made her entire body, which he held firm in strong hands locked about thin legs, shiver mercilessly.

Morti’s thighs twitched, unable to part or tighten, held firm in the Reverend’s grip. It was her lashing to take, no escape. Her body started to buck. Her shoulders came off the bed unexpectedly.

“Oh! Oh, Grandpa!”

Her wide cucumber eyes grew all the more worldly broad and her lips parted in shock.

He felt her climax on his tongue first. Her shallow cavern shuddered, thundered with contractions around the tip of his muscle.

Her cry told him what he’d already suspected about her intimate knowledge of pleasure. She was used to being used, not satisfied, and while Reverend had every intention of using her the same—he was a priest, not a saint—he saw no reason she shouldn’t be brought to the same satisfactions. It would reflect poorly on him otherwise.

“You should sleep with more Ricks and less Mortys,” he chuckled around the fluid clogging his windpipe. He panted and wiped his face on the back of his hand, but it did little to help, she was positively drenched and so was he.

“Y-you’re the only one I’m interested in at the m-moment,” she whimpered as she tried to catch her breath.

“Never been with a holy virgin before,” he said, deadpan.

She smiled, warmly for a change. “Well, I hope you’re ready to join your eternal selves in the cosmos of perpetual pleasure.”

“Hell of an advertisement.”

“Fuck me,” she demaned and locked her hands on his shoulders.

He pinned her down beneath his hips, cock cradled in the dip of her hip. “Humble sheep should hold their tongues. I’m the guide through the darkness of the unholy. Be led, little one.”

Morticia’s lips quivered defiantly, but in the end she let herself be harnessed by the priest and fell silent as he lined up and pushed deep inside of her.

It was only then that she had to speak up, if only to whine and gurgle with longing as it pierced her, body and soul, deep enough to ache. She almost pictured it clawing the sin from her, but it was only there to drive it deeper.

“P-please!”

She was impossibly tight, nearly painful as her inner walls choked his prick out. Rick considered it recompense for what he was doing, what he was about to do. 

Using his arms like iron bars to either side of her head, he leaned over her and started to pivot his hips.

Rick had waited only long enough for her signal of acceptance, but after that she was his to claim. His length, swollen and latched inside by the sheer strength of her grip, rocked in and out. Her cunt sloshed around him, slick and satiny as her sheets and the auburn hair jostling about her shoulders.

Morticia was small, and the reverend struck her back wall and made her clench on each stroke. Fingers flexed madly, uncertain where to go. Legs spasmed, tightened and loosened about his hips. Sometimes her heels dug against his spine, made the old bones ache and creak as he drove roughly inside.

Reverend knew before much longer such primal motions would be forbidden, too dangerous to the life inside, but for now it was just harsh enough, just blindingly hot enough to substitute for a flame or hot wax. Enough to discipline her and pleasure her.

She felt enough like a virgin for Reverend to start to fall for the illusion. She was petite and cradled easily against his chest. Her nipples, hard and alert, rubbed against his chest and tickled his skin and made her gasp and keen with sounds he’d been unaware she could make. He could only imagine what it had to feel like, to be so helpless to her own body. He wanted her to give into it, to feel safe in her salvation.

“I’ll be your infinity, baby girl. Just hold on to me and I’ll carry you to the light,” he muttered against her ear. His hands moved from her hips where they’d darkened the skin, up to feel the slight lift of her stomach, the steepening hills of her breasts, then upward to tangle in her hair that was soft as strands of spider silk.

Morticia bounced atop him, drove him fully inside, speared herself on his holy mountain.

“Oh, oh yes! Daddy! Fuck me, Daddy!”

The proclamation was so absurd it nearly broke his pace. Yet it was so enthralling it drove him onward. Reverend grunted as he struggled to move in and out against the friction already suffocating him in pleasure.

It was like an ouroboros. A serpent consuming itself. He was _daddy_ , he was the universe. Grandfather, father, and the holy ghost. He was everything to her in that moment and he stood for everyone that had ever meant something to her. He gave into it.

“That’s right, baby girl. I’m your daddy. I’m your salvation. I’m everything you need.”

She was like Lilith, cast down by the ones she had loved, then made a symbol. He wanted, for a little while, to raise her out of that limbo. To hold her up under the light of whatever heaven they could find.

They moved together for an indeterminate amount of time. They gave themselves up to the nonexistence of space-time and became spots in the universe rather than people, stars flaring in the spatial void.

But like with every portal he’d ever slipped through, he eventually hit the ground. His hips seized up, and even if he’d wanted to escape there wasn’t any. Her legs locked him in place as spools of his completion unraveled inside her. His seed painted her insides and became one with all the others before him, mingled.

Reverend felt her follow after, obediently stumbling after her shepperd after all. Morticia’s body was like a collapsing star, burning out with a bang, shaking with the force of the _big_ bang.

He held her through it, let himself feel every tremble that ran through her with holy reverence. He had come to her to worship in the end and tried to find his breath in the darkness that had settled around them.

Morticia’s skin chilled quickly in the night air, but the places where Rick held her were warm.

Her voice came forth weak and uneven. Whether there were tears, Reverend was unsure. “Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image.”

Rick couldn’t help but laugh. “All the idols are false.” He kissed the top of her head, inhaled the scent of floral shampoo, and laid them out to rest there.

***

In the time she spent within the walls of the church, Morticia and Reverend became like docks in the ocean for the other’s passing ships. They had their own lovers, their own affairs, but eventually they would cross paths and he would re-enter that infinite warmth and claim her, keep her both protected and caged beneath the guidance of yet another Rick. Her place, permanently anchored as she’d forever be.

He discovered she was smart, not only in the ways of manipulating men, but in the realm of the believing unbelief. The coy and insidious sort of faith that drew others on leads behind her rather than around her like the dregs.

There was an opening among the order and he knew she knew it. Though she never spoke of her intentions, her actions spoke to him louder than any confession could. She wanted power, the kind only a Morti of her kind could achieve. The kind Reverend had. Greater even.

He had little doubt she’d get it. Eventually, the weeks turned to months and her child became the spectral globe Rick had so feared. It held the very orbit he’d known it would and brought great Ricks to their knees in a guilt-lush awe.

When she had reached this stage, it came time for her to move on.

Rick had a chance to say his goodbyes when he brought her breakfast.

“I leave after today’s sermon,” Morti said from where she sat on her bed. She was in full garb, hands folded tidy atop the globe of her stomach.

“Glad I came to see you now then. Where are they sending you exactly? Didn’t get a lot of details.” Rick set down the tray and sat beside her.

“It’s a tour, missionary work. I'm going to try to recruit more souls into the congregation.”

Rick didn’t know where to put his hands so he resorted to the old handy flask. He took a swig and offered it to her, but she shook her head to decline. “Sounds like a show-pony bullshit,” he said bluntly, comfortable enough with her now to be earnest.

“It was my idea,” she confessed.

“Ah,” he replied, unsure what else to say. 

“Feels like I’m going to be pregnant for a thousand years,” she said suddenly.

“Infinite Rick, baby!” They both snickered at that, then Reverend added, “It’s natural to be tired. You have to carry your load a little longer.”

She nodded.

“But a few more months will probably feel like an eternity.”

“I’ll miss you,” she said simply. “But when I return our numbers will have grown.” She stroked her stomach meaningfully.

There was a lurch of something in the Reverend’s gut, but he ignored it. “I don’t think we’ll ever be the same here when you do.”

They stood together and he leaned down to kiss her, though her rotund stomach now stood between them like a wall through which there was no entry.

“You can count on that,” she replied at last.

When the moment she was to part came, a few hours later, Reverend with other Ricks of the cloth saw her off in her ship-turned-caravan.

She bid him farewell with a wave and that lurch came to Rick’s stomach again. Morticia was walking hypocrisy and now, too, self-actualized purpose. She had chosen to claim what she’d been forced into. Whatever was to come of this, it would indeed shake things. However, Reverend figured he’d deal with it when it came. For the time being, he had a flock to tend to.

**Author's Note:**

> I had a lot of fun working on this and Morti was such a joy to bring to life. The Starry AU is one big sandbox and I appreciate Left allowing me to play around in it (with their toys no less). Please let us know what you thought of Morti and the story in the comments! Thanks for reading~


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